From the Frying Pan into the Fire
by Fish Bag
Summary: Missing scenes from a missing scene. Set during the deleted bonfire scene in episode 7.05, The Great Stink. It's the Ls' first contact since the supermarket, and Christopher, April and the townies are all there too. Uh-oh. What could possibly go so wrong? And can things ever be righted again for our favorite couple? Finally completed. Rated T for language & major angst
1. Part One-Into the Fire

**A/N **

**Of all the many, many questionable moves made by TPTB, the exclusion of the bonfire scene from episode 7.05, The Big Stink, is probably the single most head-scratching to me. (And I am NOT just saying this because it's pretty much the only Luketime in the entire episode, and he's replaced by scene after scene of Lor/Chris shmoopieness. Cack.) The scene is wonderfully understated, it is beautifully shot, and it conveys so much with very few words. It's crucial to the story arc, as it shows us that Luke is now aware of, and devastated by, the L/C coupling. It is also pivotal because it has the town accepting April as one of their own, and becoming part of Stars Hollow life. Plus it shows the development of the Luke-April bond to something more like a real father-daughter. (Whatever your shark-jumping feelings about April, if she's there, might as well make it work, right?) And, finally, it's the townies together in the square-who can ever have too much of that? **

**Anyway, before you read this story, please, if you haven't already, watch the deleted bonfire scene it is based on. It's available on season 7 DVD sets, on YouTube and, if you really don't want to watch, you can just read the transcripts. But picture a very dark mood while you're reading. **

**Oh, and I sent Rory home. She was bugging me, all happy in the car with her mommy and daddy, and since she actually cannot be seen in the shot of the car as it drives by Luke, I say they dropped her off at home first. That's about as AU as I've ever been, or probably ever will be, so go with it. The rest, as usual, could conceivably fit into canon if you need it to.**

**Please remember, both the Ls are feeling very, very angry, hurt and betrayed at this point. I'm kind of attempting to reflect this in the writing, which is more intense than usual for me. This will be a two-shot, and the second half will hopefully be a bit more uplifting, but fair warning on this first part.**

* * *

**From the Frying Pan into the Fire**

For a moment, she doesn't recognize him. His hat is different. Even in the dead of night, she can tell it is darker. Ominous. He's got his arm around April, who seems to be holding court in front of the large bonfire. She watches from the car window as the townspeople gather around the precocious girl, listening to her pontificate, the way they once did with _her_ daughter. She feels aggravated, jealous. What bothers her more? That the town has come to know and love April as the new and improved Rory? Or that the town has come to know and love April, period?

"Pull over," she orders. "Stop the car."

"What?" Christopher stares at her, incredulous. "It stinks here. Let's just go back to your place."

"It stinks everywhere in this town, Chris."

"You said it, not me," he quips.

"I am going to that bonfire," she declares. This is her town. Hers. "And I am going with you, Chris." She bolts from the car. "Come on."

She walks quickly toward the action. Her anger is palpable now. Her eyes are narrowed and her gait is forceful. Painful memories flicker in time with the flame.

**...I can't be in this relationship-it's too much…**

**...You're**** practically a cartoon character…**

**...So we're not getting married, big deal…**

**...I could care less, date whoever you want…**

**...You belong with someone like Christopher…**

'_You got it,'_ she seethes. She marches defiantly toward the crowd, holding Christopher's hand.

'_Careful what you wish for, Buddy.'_

* * *

He watches them approach from the corner of his eye, pretending to be focused on April's marshmallow stick. On the outside, he looks the cool, doting dad. But his internal heat is beginning to rival that of the fire. '_What the hell does she think she's doing?' _he fumes to himself_. 'Showing up here. With _him_.'_ He stares hard at the stick. It looks so flimsy. Saggy and feeble. But he sees it can survive the flame whereas a solid stick would be consumed. He steals a quick glance at Christopher. _ 'Is she actually _dating _him now? Well, you told her to, Putz. Threw her to the wolves_.' He looks at her fleetingly. She stands tall and proud, holding her date's hand. '_No,_ y_ou didn't throw her. She jumped. Face it, Dean was right. Emily was right. Hell, even TJ was right. She was slumming. Biding her time until she could run to him and crush you like a bug. She wants more than this, more than you, more than Stars Hollow. Always did.' _He pulls a pocket knife from his jacket and begins to whittle needlessly at the end of April's stick. Shards of soft green wood flick onto the ground. '_But this _is _Stars Hollow,' _he ponders_. 'So what is she doing? Bringing him here. Taunting you. In front of the whole town. He doesn't belong here. _They _don't belong here.'_ This is his town. His. He stands up straight, and stares directly into the fire he created.

* * *

Before the new couple can quite make it to the main crowd, they are curtailed by Babette and Morey Dell, Stars Hollow Peacekeeping Squad.

"Hey, dollface," Babette smiles warily at her neighbor. "Oh, uh, hi, Christopher," she adds with a nervous glance at the pair's joined hands.

"Hey, what's the haps, Babette?" she asks lightly, hoping she sounds like her old self. It has been a while.

"Oh, well, you heard about the pickles-well, even if you didn't it would be hard to miss, am I right, gorgeous? Anyway, it's from a train all the way out by Woodbury, you know. At first, we thought maybe Kirk pulled another Kirk, like the Easter egg fiasco from," Babette looks up at her husband, "when was it, 2002, 2003, Morey?"

"Oh-four, Babs. Very uncool aroma."

"But that was nothing compared to this, let me tell ya," Babette continues to ramble. A mixture of general unease and Founder's Day punch make her forget her mission of harmony. "So we were making a fire to combat the stink, you know, like April over there suggested. God bless her, that adorable little brainiac. And it's going really well, don'tcha think it smells better, at least right here in the square? She's one smart cookie, that April, I'm telling ya." Morey nudges her discretely. As discretely as a six-foot-seven man can nudge his five-foot-zero wife. Babette starts over. "Oh, I mean, we _were_ making a fire to combat the stink, 'cause it's kinda the same as lighting a match in the crapper, if you get what I mean. But we've all been out here a while and we've run out of firewood, so now we're just throwing stuff into the giant bin, 'cause it's fun."

"Crazy fun," Morey elaborates.

"And it's driving Taylor over there nutso," Babette continues. "Well, more nutso than usual, I mean. 'Course it didn't help when he came out with a Stars Hollow ordinance book and L-." She stops short and looks at Morey for approval before continuing, "Uh, _someone_ grabbed it right out of his hands and tossed it in the fire. 'Course Kirk went in after it, the big suck up. Dumb goofball's off getting bandaged."

Morey nods solemnly just as Miss Patty appears at their side.

"Here, I knew I had more," Patty says, slightly winded. "These flyers were left over from my last recital. Kirk was supposed to print up two dozen, and he printed up two hundred. And here are the pants Kirk split open last month trying to prove he could still fit into his Friedrick Von Trapp costume from 5th grade." She calls across the open flame, "April, honey, I checked. They're pure cotton, not even a zipper, so they're okay to throw in." As she moves toward the bin with her stash, she finally notices who is beside her.

"Well, hello, dear. I'm so glad you came." Patty says. "Uh, these are those pants you said couldn't be mended, so I- Oh, hello Christopher. So glad to see you back in town," she says skeptically. She looks worriedly to Babette, who simply shrugs back. "Visiting your daughter?"

"Actually, I came for the contest." Christopher calls after Patty.

"Contest, honey?" Patty continues upon her return from the bin.

"Miss Patty or a great big fire-which is hotter?" he replies with a smarmy grin.

Patty is less guarded than her friend, more susceptible to Christopher's charms, such as they are. All of her trepidation falls away with the flirting. "And what did you determine, dear boy?"

"Make way, coming through." Gypsy brusquely interrupts on her way to the fire. "Here, Doose's bills. I don't know why I keep these," she grumbles. "No returns no matter what. Damn cheapskate, Taylor!" she calls out loudly in Taylor's direction. The Selectman stands over by a picnic table, flipping through the charred ordinance book to locate the anti-bonfire by-law. When he hears his name, he looks up, smiles and waves, and then goes back to his task. Gypsy throws the receipts in the bin one at a time, which seems to thrill the crowd. Each thin strip of toner-laden paper makes the flame spark and jump.

Gypsy finishes her turn and is summoned to the small gathering that has formed farther back.

"Hey, Gypsy, you've met Christopher, right? Chris, tell Gypsy about that cool red convertible. I mean, I could tell you it's cool and red, but Chris can tell you details about horses and Vs that would…oh, hey, Kirk! How's the hand? Let's see, poor baby. Wow, great bandaging job, Lulu. Mrs. Cassini, is that a new cardigan?" The small faction grows larger, drawn to the new Heather. Emily Gilmore would be proud of her daughter's networking.

He and April now stand alone at the fire. '_What is she doing now? Building an army? What, no ribbons this time?' _he sneers to himself_. _Ed approaches, tosses in a candy bar wrapper. He nods to his old buddy and allows him to retreat without a word. He can rise above her childish tactics, but he can't seem to look away from the new-found clique. Or its de facto leader.

Back at the fire, April stops roasting. She glances up questioningly toward whatever seems to be distracting her father. She sees the answer, standing with some people she is acquainted with, and some she isn't. April raises her arm in a small greeting. It is a simple wave of recognition from a young girl to someone she once met, someone her Dad used to know. It is not angry; it holds no agenda.

But it stops its recipient cold.

'_Oh Shit.'_ She drops Christopher's hand in order to return April's gesture, but stands frozen instead. '_Why did she do that? What is she up to, with that wave? Can a wave be genetic?' _She tries to regroup. '_Come on, she's just a kid. Wave back.'_ But all she can do is stare.

If April is flummoxed by the lack of reciprocity, she doesn't show it. She looks back to the fire, then up at her father. "Dad, Taylor might, _might," _she winces_,_ "have a tiny point, now that we're tossing random things in. I don't know about the marshmallow roasting now, with all the potential unknown carcinogens. It's not exactly the wisest thing when we were just burning wood, but now…" She notices he's only half listening, that his eyes are still focused on the woman across the fire. She tries to get his attention. "Dad?"

He hears her clearly, but pretends he doesn't. He wants to make sure everyone can hear her call him Dad. '_Say it again, April. Louder_!' He's Dad now. '_That didn't take long. She could have waited.'_

"DAD!"

'_She could have waited, damn it! You waited for her. She never waits. She just jumps- _says _whatever the hell she wants, _does_ whatever the hell she wants, _when_ever the hell she wants, everyone else be damned.' _He stares hard at the crackling, cackling flames and reflects.

**...I want the whole package…**

**...I don't want to wait…**

**...I planned our whole wedding. June 3****rd****, by the way…**

**...I**** asked you to marry me and you said yes…**

**...I'm ****tired of waiting, it's now or never…**

He finally turns away from the fire, back to his daughter.

"Okay, so we'll stop with the marshmallows then. I think I've just about had my fill of s'moreos." He hopes to God she heard that too. Just in case, he adds at full volume, "Loved the s'moreos though, thanks, Sweetie."

"What's that Andrew?" someone in the horde inquires about his odd-looking stack of pressed cardboard.

"Book covers." Andrew explains, "When a book is damaged and I have to send it back, they make you rip the cover off. Kirk got a little overzealous last year when I had him doing inventory, and this is what's left over."

Christopher leans in and murmurs, "Okay, so, basically, Kirk is Star's Hollow's Gilligan."

She likes the idea of speaking softly back to Christopher. It makes for a good visual. She smiles, giggles too loudly, and whispers back. "Gilligan, Urkell, Skippy Handleman, Larry Mondello and Potsie Webber, with just a little Boo Radley thrown in for the literati. But he's all ours. Welcome to the Hollow, Babe." She deliberately caresses Christopher's arm as she speaks. Toys with his hair. Her body language implies that she is whispering something very different than a list of sitcom nerds. As she predicts, hopes, they are being watched. But she has miscalculated the effect of the PDA.

'_Is that supposed to make you jealous?' _He scoffs. He is still far too angry to miss her touch_**. **_The only physical contact he currently craves is with him, not her_**.**_ His fist, Christopher's face. '_Man,_ _hitting him felt good,' _he remembers_. 'To hell with her.' _

She senses her performance is not going well. She tries to up the ante. More whispering. "We have to put something in the fire, Chris."

"Why?" Christopher asks suspiciously.

"Because," she states simply, "it's my turn." She moves closer to the fire. The rest of the throng follows. It seems the whole town is now surrounding the large bin. She leads Christopher toward the flame.

Christopher shrugs, but follows dutifully. "OK, so what do you want from me? Where's your purse?" He asks.

"I sent it home with Rory."

_Rory. _The word shoots across the flame, straight into his soul. His head jerks up in recollection.

**...I**** don't want to set a date until things are right with Rory…**

**...Rory's**** back; we can get married now…**

'_Whatever she wants. Whenever she wants.'_ He clenches his jaw.

Once up at the fire, Christopher looks around, helpless_._ "Of all the times not to have that bag of crap with you," he jokes. Patty and Babette snicker. "Everyone knows your purse is legendary. It could keep this party going for hours." More giggles and nods of recognition. "OK, well," he continues, encouraged by the welcoming response, "unlike _some_ people, I keep things pretty neat." Christopher pulls out his eelskin wallet.

He tries not to look toward the laughing crowd. His stomach turns at the thought of that weasel Christopher ingratiating himself to the town. His town. '_Christopher will never fit in here,'_ he tells himself. '_If she wants to be with him, let them both move away. This is _your_ town. Yours.' _ He feels the bile rise in his throat. His jaw tightens further. His chest begins to heave. '_Stay calm_,' he tells himself. '_For April.'_ He un-balls his fists and puts an arm around his daughter. He takes deep breaths to control himself, but the air feels thick and smoky.

Fortunately, before things escalate, Christopher himself breaks the tension. By being Christopher. "I myself don't have much to toss in," he drones. "I clean it out every few weeks, but here's a few bucks for fun."

There are a few seconds of stunned silence. Then all hell breaks loose.

"That guy threw in real money!" one of the Banyan Boys shrieks.

"I can get it out!" Kirk lunges toward the fire, but Lulu holds him back.

"Holy…" yells Big Pete.

"…crap!" finishes Little Pete.

The commotion draws Taylor's attention. He comes trotting over.

"Was that actual legal tender? Now I _know_ that's a violation, ordinance book or not." He points a finger at Christopher. "You can't willfully burn money, young man. It's un-American."

"That's flags, Taylor, you idiot!" Gypsy yells back.

"Did he just throw money in there?" Brian asks incredulously. "I had gum for lunch."

This is _not_ the attention she was hoping to garner. "Oh my God, Chris!"

"What? It was just two ones and a five. It's not like I threw in the fifties," he cajoles as they retreat.

"Who is this jerk-off?" mutters Bootsy. He is en route to the bin, holding a large stack of small papers.

"Shut it," Gypsy replies from the corner of her mouth. "I'll tell you later."

"Don't bother," Bootsy shrugs, turning toward the flame, "It was a, whaddayacall it, a restorical question. Here ya go," he states dejectedly. "Lottery tickets. Losers every one. I don't know why I kept them." Into the bonfire goes Bootsy's wad of lotto tickets. "I should just stop playing. My luck never changes."

_Luck. _The word jolts him once again.

...**Keep that in your wallet, Duke. It'll bring you luck… **

**...You're lucky I'm back in your life, because clearly you were lost without me. Right?...**

He shakes his head slowly at the memories._ 'It's all a game to her. You were just another pawn.'_

**...Man, I will say anything for a cup of coffee…**

'_Whatever she wants. Whenever she wants it.'_

He looks across the flame, seeking her out. She is already watching him. '_Good.' _He tightens his grip on April, draws her closer, kisses her head. She, in turn, snuggles into Christopher, places a hand on his chest, wraps her arms around him. Around Christopher.

**...I slept ****with Christopher…**

His internal rant builds once again. His eyes narrow, but do not look away_. 'Is she taunting you? Why did she come here, anyway? To April's thing? To the bonfire you built? Why did she come with him? Why'd she get out of his car? Why'd she get _in_ his car in the first place? _

_FUCK HER.' _

He takes a deep steadying breath. He tries to calm himself again. But he is too far gone now. Completely enraged. He releases April and stands tall, arms folded challengingly. She matches his stance exactly, having disentangled from Christopher. From Christopher.

**...I slept with Christopher...**

'_Fuck.'_

**...It'll**** bring you luck…**

'_Her.' _

Minutes pass.

Across the flame, two sets of blue eyes pierce into each other; ocean and sky, reflecting between them equal measures of hurt, shame, guilt and fury.

He steps to the bonfire's edge. Without breaking eye contact, he very deliberately reaches into his back pocket, and slowly opens _his_ wallet. He glares at her unflinchingly as he carefully pulls out a yellowed piece of newsprint.

He holds it up to his face at eye level, slowly and methodically balls it up, and tosses it with a flick it into the flame.

"Losing ticket?" Bootsy claps him on the back in a rare show of solidarity.

"Something like that, Bootsy," he answers coolly. His eyes still bore into hers. His clenched jaw allows his mouth only the tiniest of triumphant smirks.

"Well, Butch, old buddy-here's to changed luck!"


	2. Part Two-And Out Again?

**Author's Note/Warning: I've marked this as 'friendship' instead of 'romance' because there is no romantic reconciliation here, within this story. But hopefully, javajunkies will still find it, well, hopeful. This could fit with canon, and ends mid season 7, when Christopher the slime (thank you, elusive, mysterious Nancy for that name) is still in the picture. I'm just trying to fill in some voids that might have helped those crazy kids get back on track and allowed for the happily ever-after we all know they're living now. The beginning of the chapter is still quite dark; but as promised, it does lighten up as it goes along. Enjoy the ride.**

* * *

**From the Frying Pan Into the Fire- Part Two**

Weeks go by. He tries to live his life. He goes through the motions. Diner, April, fishing. Lather, rinse, repeat. But he is still not himself. Doesn't feel he'll ever be himself again. They have had no contact since the bonfire. But still he sees her face. Vividly, constantly. He cannot stop picturing her eyes when he last saw her. Eyes that first burned bright with anger and animosity, but still, he thinks, possibly hope. Then, with his one swift action, eyes that instantly dulled in defeat.

Initially, he feels triumphant. Soon that emotion gives way to a storm of others. Sorrow, regret, grief, love and hatred all rain down, confusing the hell out of him. Still he sees her eyes across that fire. '_Is that what you looked like when she told you about Christopher?'_ he wonders plaintively. '_What did you ever do to deserve that?' _

'_You must send off a _vibe_,'_ he sneers in another moment of self-pity. '_A "please cheat on me" vibe.'_ After all_,_ he reasons, Nicole betrayed him too. Yet he does not hate Nicole, never gives her nor The Sockman a second thought. But why not?_ 'Why does this feel so different?'_ he ponders. He desperately wants to understand. He thinks it through, processes. Although his farce of a marriage was years ago and he knows emotion can fade over time, he recognizes that in fact he _never_ hated Nicole. He also never loved Nicole. He still feels guilty about that. Nicole knew she never had his heart, but he committed to her anyway. _'Did you really, though?'_ he asks himself. He comes to realize that fidelity and commitment are not the same thing; the absence of one can lead to the loss of the other. He subsequently reaches a conclusion on his easy forgiveness of Nicole: He understands that her betrayal was merely a drastic reaction to her feeling unloved and unwanted by him.

'_WHOA!'_

He has what is possibly the second biggest epiphany of his life. He finally sees things from the other side of the (bon)fire. He stops thinking of himself purely as a victim. He recognizes his own mistakes as well as hers. Understanding them proves harder. He questions how it is that someone he loved (loves?) so utterly, so completely, could sense only the opposite from him. '_Why couldn't she see what was in your heart?' _he ponders_. 'Why couldn't you see what was in her mind_?'

He reflects back on his frozen-food aisle assessment of the two of them being fundamentally mismatched.

**...We're not right together, you know? You're you, I'm me. I just want to stop pretending we're something else…**

He had spewed those words at her as a hurtful barb, but he thought them the truth at the time. Now, after much reflection, while he stands by his assessment of the two of them being intrinsically different types of people, he realizes that it was not incompatibility that destroyed them in the end. Ironically, it was their similarities. He now sees them as unwitting characters in the rarest of Shakespearean dramas- one with dual heroes, each with the same tragic flaw: self-doubt.

His anger dissipates. It is replaced by overwhelming sadness as he considers the futility of their dissolution. He is not sure he will ever reclaim his old self, but he tries to stay hopeful for his future nonetheless. He focuses on April. He dates. He dotingly watches Lane and Liz expand with new life. He continues to process, slowly. He thinks about her often, wonders what she is up to. '_Probably not slowly processing_,' he snorts. '_Whatever.'_ He genuinely hopes she is happy. He misses her, he finally admits. Misses her terribly.

He wants her back in his life, in any way possible. Even if it's just to drink his coffee, to be his casual friend. And he really wants to clear the air between them. Wants to forgive her. Wants to be forgiven by her. Maybe then he can start feeling like himself again. Maybe.

After that, who knows?

So, when April gets sick he calls her. He feels better when he speaks to her; even better when he first sees her arrive at the hospital. But he fails to take in that she is not herself either. Her eyes still look dull, lifeless, but he does not notice.

Because he has already noticed her hand.

Seeing the ring on her finger sets the whole process back for him. The anger flares again, the self-pity, the shame. He feels that she has played him once more.

Only he knows that he is not really in the game.

* * *

The next evening, she checks up on April. She decides to use the phone instead of returning to the hospital; she cannot bear to look him in the eye.

"Hi, it's…me. Hi," she says nervously when he answers.

No response.

"I, um, called to see how April's doing."

"She's coming along," he says curtly. "Thanks."

There is an awkward pause. Then they both speak at once:

"So, congratulations." "I'm sorry."

He thinks about asking her to clarify what she's apologizing for, but decides it doesn't matter. He ignores her and continues snidely, "I mean, 'best wishes'. Congratulations should be for," he stops, gives a rueful chuckle, "Emily, actually. Her dream come true. Bet she's all over this."

She understands the sharpness in his tone, but it does not make it sting less.

"I didn't mean for you to find out like that," she offers meekly.

"Didn't you?" he spits. All pretense of civility is gone now. Vanished with the sight of the ring. Weeks of soul-searching mean nothing in this moment, as rage takes over as the reigning emotion.

"No!" she cries defensively.

"Really?" he roars. "Because it seems like that's the real fun for you. Getting to see my face when I find out. Find out you _slept_ with him. Find out you're _dating _him. Find out you're _married_ to him!"

She thinks about that for a while as she listens to his ragged breathing. Unlike him, she is not a ponderer. She acts in the moment, reacts in the moment. But now, for the first time, she truly reflects on her behavior. At the bonfire, before, since. She cringes as she pictures herself at the fire all those weeks ago, purposely fawning over Christopher. And just yesterday, at the hospital, '_Did you have to be so thoughtless, waving that ring around?_' She then thinks back further. To painting dates broken, daisies callously distributed, front-yard fishing lessons, plates of pot roast prepared. She realizes that on some level, conscious or not, he is right. She does indeed seem to delight in showing him that others want her, in throwing other men up in his face. She is mortified. She's been doing this to him for years, and not just with Christopher. Years. '_Why was it so important that he be at your engagement shower? That he watch you dance with Max?' _she wonders mournfully._ 'How could you be so malicious?'_

"Oh my God," she whispers hoarsely. "I'm a horrible person."

She starts to cry. Wracking sobs of self-recrimination. It has been years since she has shed such misty, water-colored tears.

He cannot bear the sound any more now than he could then. He instantly regrets his outburst.

"No, you are _not_," he states firmly into the phone.

After many weeks of processing, his anger, when it flares, now falls away faster. Moreover, all of his introspection and reflection have caused a definite shift in the paradigm as well. His need to console her now far outweighs his desire to upset her.

"Not horrible," he reiterates in a gentler tone. "Human." He doesn't know if she's heard him over the sound of her own woeful wails. He tries again. "Hey, come on," he soothes tenderly. "We all say and do hurtful things. When we're hurting."

Her weeping stops almost instantly with the realization that he is trying to comfort her. She is still crying softly, but she smiles through her tears at his familiar selflessness. She sniffles before clarifying,

"Like you did, with the horoscope?"

His first thought is to answer a quick "yes" and be done with it. Keep up the tit-for-tat game. After all, she _is_ technically accurate. It _was_ a retaliatory act, and he _was_ hurting. Is hurting still. Nevertheless, he feels an overwhelming yearning to tell her. He needs her to know; he needs to explain. All of it. The hurting, the hating, the hope. He gives a self-deprecating chuckle, takes a deep breath, and confesses:

"It was a coupon for bait."

"What?" she exhales, then lapses into stunned stillness.

"A coupon. From the newspaper," he states plainly. When she doesn't react, he continues sheepishly, "For, uh, Bob's Bait Barn, over in Woodbridge?" After another bout of silence, he adds with mock enthusiasm, "Buy one bucket of worms, get the second half price!"

A gasp, a giggle and a sob erupt from her simultaneously.

"Idiot!" she manages to bark out through the laughter and the tears.

Relieved by her response, he retorts, "Nah, it was expired."

She toys with her wedding band.

"I meant me," she says softly.

* * *

This time, the silence lasts longer. He simply does not know what to say to that, so he waits for her to speak again.

"It's still in your wallet?"

The hopefulness in her voice stuns them both and breaks him completely. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and heaves a sigh.

"It's in a box, in my closet. Along with the blue hat, that one shirt you always…" He lets his voice trail off, because he's afraid he won't get through the whole sentence. He gives himself a moment, clears his throat. "I'm not as impulsive as you are. I need time to ponder."

She reflects back on instances in the past when he has tried to express to her that very notion…

**...****I was pondering…**

**...****I need more time. I told you that…**

**...I can't just jump like this…**

…and on her own dismissive responses.

**...well, you ponder really slowly…**

**...I'm afraid of this more time stuff…**

**...I'm sorry to hear that. And I have to go…**

She hangs her head in regret and shame. Her tears stream soundlessly as she listens, truly hearing him at last.

"One day, after I've thought it all out, I might want to put it back in my wallet. Or just bring it out to look at some time. To remember." He swallows hard. But his voice remains gravelly. "Who knows, maybe I'll even feel like wearing the hat again someday. Or the shirt." He stops to consider. "Nah, probably not the shirt," he rasps. He blinks away his emotion, grateful she cannot see him. "Or," he concludes with bravado, "somewhere down the road, I might want to get rid of all of it. But this way, I've got time to decide."

It is now completely quiet on the line. Yet somehow, he can hear her tears. He waits patiently once again.

Moments pass. Finally, she murmurs,

"I threw it all away."

* * *

He is surprised to feel his heart break. He didn't even think it was still there. But there it is, aching for her, sharing in her pain as it always has. He can't seem to help it.

"Aw, listen," he offers kindly, "Who's to say which way's right, you know? We're both just trying to deal, to get through it all the best we can."

"Yeah?" she asks skeptically.

"Yes," he reassures. "We're just different, you and me. I process, you jump."

"O-kay," she sniffles.

"I guess you just need another jumper," he states magnanimously. '_More like pouncer,'_ he adds to himself. But he holds his tongue. Just a short time ago, ruled by his fuming head, he would have told her to go lie in the bed she made. Now, overruled by his heart, he almost feels sorry her, stuck with that jerk.

So he tries to spin it for her.

"I actually admire that about you, you know," he starts off. "The way you can just jump. Move on. Me, I'm trapped in the same place forever. I don't deal well with change. Definitely not a jumper." He ramps it up. "Tried it once, jumping, and we know how ridiculous an endeavor that turned out to be. It's just not how I'm wired. But you are. So maybe you're better off with, uh, someone you can jump with. And, that's what you've got now, with...so, it's good, right?" He doesn't wait for her answer. "It's good," he answers for her, trying to convince them both. "I'm glad you're happy now. You may not believe it, but that's all I've ever wanted for you. To be happy. And if marrying," his voice hitches only slightly, "Christopher is what makes you happy, then, uh, good. So, yeah," he rambles, "I guess, in retrospect, it was the right decision for you because…"

She is barely paying attention to the words of his lame rant, which they both know is just a desperate rationalization. Instead, she focuses on his soothing affect. She marvels at how, despite his anger, despite the pain she caused him, he is trying to console her, to make things better for her, to help her justify her latest ridiculous, impetuous choice.

Which is exactly what she would have expected him to do, once upon a time.

Just experiencing this side of him again after such a long absence makes her own heart swell. She finds herself inexplicably grinning. Her tears dry up completely. She feels a slight shift in her world's axis, as if things that were askew for a long time may be starting to right themselves. Maybe.

Meanwhile, oblivious to her potential breakthrough, he continues his pathetic attempt at appeasement.

"…and we'll all be okay, eventually…"

"So, you made me a box, huh?" she mercifully interjects.

At first, he doesn't recognize her teasing tone. It's been so long since he's heard it.

"Well, not- it's just- something I-," he stammers. Then he thinks he hears a soft snicker on the other end of the line. "I am _not _pining," he overstates.

"Oh, no," she returns playfully. "Of course not."

"I'm not!"

"Okay," she acquiesces a little too easily. "Mr. Sinatra," she tacks on. "Chairman of the Board. Ol' Bl-"

"Stop," he admonishes. But he grins too as he feels their stilted discussion change to familiar banter.

"Really, Frank," she reassures him, "I get it. I am sadly quite familiar with the box-and-wallow protocol."

"So what's in my box?" he asks good-naturedly. "You must have kept _something_. I'm curious, in the great purge of all things me, which stuff got a box reprieve?" When she doesn't answer right away, he prompts, "You know pancakes are perishable. You'll get mice."

"None of it. I really kept nothing," she declares, sounding much more sullen than she intended. "So no box for you." She quickly moves to recover the lighthearted mood. "No soup, no box!"

"I don't get a box? You don't think I'm box-worthy? I'm a little insulted," he gripes, only half-joking, but equally anxious to keep up the flippant dialogue that sounds so much like the real them. "Between you and Rory, that stupid closet was full of ex boxes."

"Xboxes? Like, 360?" she teases. "Totally rad, dude!"

He rolls his eyes, but he cannot stop his grin from spreading. "Max boxes, Dean boxes. Jeez, even my punk-ass nephew has a box."

"Yes, but all it has in it is 875 _thousand _books."

"Yeah, I know. I'm the one who had to lift it into the cupboard. So, why no box for me?" questions the ponderer.

"I went a different route this time," the jumper answers.

"You could say that," he blurts too fast. "You got married."

That sobers them both up instantly. Their conversation comes to a screeching halt. There is more awkward silence while he inwardly chastises himself for setting back their progress and she stares mutely at her ring.

After a minute of intent gazing, she pronounces,

"I jumped."

"Yeah," he agrees sadly.

"Because I'm a jumper," she reasons.

"And I'm not."

The tears threaten once more, but she shakes them away. Her eyes remain fixed on her left hand, as she struggles to make sense of her new reality.

"God. It doesn't seem real," she divulges. "Does it ever feel like that to you?"

He bristles. "I already told you how unreal this all feels to me," he snaps.

She shivers, and he shudders, each remembering his monologue from that awful morning, the worst morning of their lives.

**...It's like my life isn't even real to me unless you're there, and you're in it, and I'm sharing it with you…**

He shakes his head in reprimand for once again speaking without filtering. Eager to get them back on track, he tries to bring back the playful chatter from moments before. "Hey, so you wanna talk about video game consoles some more? That was fun."

She smiles at his efforts. She's totally on board with the bantering, but now that she's opened up Pandora's Box, she also wants to keep processing. She thinks he might be on to something here…

"So does it still? Feel unreal?" she delves. "I don't know if unreal is the right word. Maybe _surr_eal. I'm thinking less Rod Serling, more David Lynch, you know?"

"Zack is partial to the Playstation."

She presses on. "This past…I don't even know how long, it just seems like, like I don't know who I am anymore."

"Yeah," he concedes.

"Actually, it's more like, my life, it's happening to someone else, and I'm watching it all from inside a bubble," she muses. "Ooh, or, no, a cloud!"

"A cloud," he repeats, stalling for time. He's trying to keep up with her whirling mind, but he's pretty rusty.

"Uh huh. Remember how Serena used to peer down from Cloud Nine into the Stephens' mortal world? She'd be up there, all mocking and judgmental, but secretly intrigued by this life that was so foreign to her. Looking almost identical to her cousin, but behaving completely differently? Oh, but do not be fooled by the groovy miniskirts. Serena was no run-of-the-mill cool-cousin sweeps-week split-screen stunt."

"No?" he plays along, bemused by the bit.

"Oh, no. There was real depth there. Everyone knows Serena was supposed to represent the dark side of Samantha's soul, that she was actually just Sam's bad-girl alter ego. Don't you think?"

"Never really analyzed it to that degree," he drawls.

"Ask Kirk," she shrugs. "Anyway," she breathes out, "that's a little like how I feel these days. Like, I'm hiding in the clouds, beneath a wig and a birthmark, watching an alternate version of my life play out."

"Uh, wow, okay. Well," he says cautiously, "you know, it's probably normal, feeling...out of sorts. I'm pretty sure that's just part of the process. It sure has been for me." He pauses. "Been a lot to process," he adds. "The past few years have been pretty crazy."

"So many changes," she acknowledges.

"Yes," he agrees solemnly. "Whole new Darren."

She bursts out laughing. He basks in the sound, pleased to have elicited it. She marvels at the bawdy noise, and tries to remember the last time she heard it sound so natural.

"At least you've been pondering, processing, whatever. That's good. I've just been jumping. Well, cowering, and then jumping, really." After a beat, she gasps, "I am Consuela!"

"See, you _do_ know who you are," he deadpans.

"When I was around seven or eight," she expounds, "my father went to this big insurance convention in Cabo. Solo, that time, you see, because Emily Gilmore does_ not_ travel to Mexico, nor to Central America," she explains with mock snootiness. "She only hires and fires from there."

"Nice." He switches ears and settles in for what he hopes will be one of her engaging poor-little-rich-girl tales. He is not disappointed.

"Without Mom's fabulous gift-buying guidance, Dad brought me back these beans from the -shudder- airport gift shop, these Mexican jumping beans."

"Hey, I remember those things," he says fondly. "They were once a very popular Stars Hollow Elementary show-and-tell item."

"Yes, they were a big hit with the Hartford mini-elite too. Way cooler than Digger Stiles' pet rock. Or Navena Cutler's nanny's gallstone in a jar."

"Sure," he encourages. God, he has missed her stories.

"So these deranged little beans would basically just twitch and shake constantly," she continues. "Not unlike many of Emily's aforementioned hires, actually. But out of the half dozen or so beans I had, there was this one that stood out. I named her Consuela…"

"Of course you did," he smirks. God, he has missed _her_.

"Consuela just lay there, motionless. For a while I thought she was a dud. She didn't twitch with her amigos at all. But if you put her too close to the other beans, or held her in your hand too tightly, then out of the blue, boom, off she'd go like a rocket."

"Yep, that sounds about right," he chuckles, "Consuela."

"Hey, watch it, Senor Crankypants," she scolds. "Don't mock the poor bean."

"So whatever happened to poor old Consuela?" he asks. "She ever fall in line?"

"Tragically, she, Pedro, Miguel and the whole gang did not make it past Senora Gilmore's firing squad," she intones. "They were gone by the next trash day. Mom was never a fan of the jumping. Or the tacky souvenirs."

"So Emily and I do have something in common after all," he smirks.

She laughs softly. "Oh, yeah, you two always were simpatico. One and the same," she pronounces. "Like Consuela and I."

"Wow," he sums up dryly, "so _you_ are a worm-infested dried bean and_ I_ am _your mother_? Not sure who fared worse in that contest of metaphors."

"Tight race," she agrees. "But for the record, it's not so great being a jumping bean," she states, serious once again. "Pretty tiring, actually. I think," she sighs, "I think I'd like to become a little more of a ponderer, like you," she confesses. "Do some real processing. I'd like to try to stop the jumping."

"You know," he says, emboldened by her candor, "you _can_ make a Mexican bean stop jumping. You just have to kill off the insidious little creature that has managed to burrow itself inside."

Another hearty laugh escapes before she can stop herself. But her amusement fades quickly. She stares at her ring again, debating whether or not to share her next thought out loud.

"The thing is, though," she starts tentatively, "when I look at my life and where I've jumped to, sometimes I can't believe," she breathes out, "that _this _is where I've landed."

His eyes widen. "I…understand how you feel," he answers very carefully. They're walking a fine line now. While he's pleased with her budding openness and honesty, he knows that too much of it too fast will scare her off. He also needs her to see that there's no quick fix here, that getting back to their complete selves will take time. "Look, it's the same for me. Even with all the processing I've been doing, some days I still look around and ask myself, 'How did I get here?'"

"Yes!" she exclaims. "Yes, exactly, David Byrne!"

He smiles. '_There she is_,' he thinks. '_There's your Crazy Lady.'_ His smile fades. '_Christopher's Crazy Lady,' _he corrects himself.

"Definitely not the same as it ever was," he grumbles, not even realizing he spoke out loud.

"Not the same, no, but it's okay, right? Where we are at, it's good?" she tries to confirm. "You said it was good," she reminds him. "Remember your awesome jumping rant?" she kids.

"Jeez, are you looking for _more_ reassurance from me about your marriage? Because now you're really pushing it." He hopes he's pulled off a joking air too. When she doesn't seem to take offense, he decides to really go for it. "You know," he tells her slowly, "one other great thing about you being a jumper- if you _really_ don't like where you've landed, you can always jump again."

She's so quiet that he worries he might have gone too far. Then he hears the tiniest sound of contemplation:

"Huh."

"I mean," he pushes, "should you ever wake up one day and say to yourself, 'My God! What have I done?'"

"Well, ignoring for a minute that you now owe Talking Heads about five trillion dollars in royalties," she quips before continuing thoughtfully, "Yeah, I guess I can." She sighs deeply, suddenly feeling a giant weight lift off her chest. She tests the words on her tongue before letting them gradually sink into her psyche. "I can jump again."

She takes another steadying breath. "If I ever need to," she backtracks guiltily. "I'm not saying I want to. I mean, I _don't _want to just jump again," she says in a rush. "Not now, at least. I've been married for about 11 minutes. And, well, I do have that bet going with Brittney Spears over who can stay married to her childhood sweetheart longer, so…"

He has mixed feelings as he listens to her nervous rambling. Although it hurts him to hear her standing by her commitment to Christopher, he remembers all too well the internal pressure to stick it out in a marriage; even, or maybe especially, one that started as out as a spontaneous elopement. He also knows from experience that nothing can save a doomed union, and, in his heart, he's sure that's what she and Christopher are. Doomed. But he understands that she has to work this through herself, on her own terms, in her own time. He's just really happy that she now seems willing to do it.

"…but, like my homegirl Brittney, if Chris turns out to be, uh, toxic for me, down the road, it does feel good to know I'm not stuck. That jumping, baby, one more time is…"

"It's an option," he confirms. "For the future."

"Like your blue hat!" she cries excitedly.

"Exactly," he laughs.

"I'm glad you kept it, as an option," she declares. "Your new one is awful."

"Well, you don't have to look at it, much," he retorts. "You don't come in the diner anymore," he adds solemnly.

"Yeah, well, under the newly wed circumstances," she winces, "I think, for now, it's probably best if I keep getting my caffeine fix elsewhere."

"Maybe one day," he shrugs, trying to sound casual, "After you've…"

"Jumped again?" she anticipates. "Paid my retainer to Arnie Becker? Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal."

"Sheesh. I was just going to say, 'after you've done some real processing.'" His tone softens. "It would be nice to see you there again, is all." He pauses. "No matter what."

The sincerity and warmth in his voice almost make her abandon her newly revived cheekiness. Almost.

"Okay, Burger Boy," she taunts, "If I come into the diner, will you wear the blue hat?"

"If I wear the blue hat," he counters, "will you come into the diner?"

"Well played, Monty Hall," she quips. Then she surprises them both. "I'd take that deal."

He clears his throat. "Tell you what," he offers. "How 'bout this? You go start your processing, see where it takes you. The diner will be waiting, if you ever want to come by. Whether you eventually decide to take that one last leap or not," he adds pointedly. "As for the hat, I'm still not finished my own processing, but I'm thinking there's a good chance you might see it on my head again, when all is said and done."

"O-kay, wow, well, you're a little ahead of me with this processing stuff. Let me get this straight," she says. "Mind if I recap? Get it? A-_head_? Re-_cap_?"

"Jeez," he groans.

"So you're saying that, theoretically, it would be okay if I kept jumping for now, if I need to…"

"Yep."

"…but that eventually, after some good old processing and pondering, I might be ready to stop…"

"Yeah."

"…and that one day, I may start coming to the diner again…"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"…and if I do, I might, at some point, find you wearing your blue hat there…"

"You just might."

"Ah, Monosyllabic Man. I have missed you so." She smiles coyly. "And If I do, you'll give me coffee?"

He snorts. "If I do, you'll go away?"

She laughs. "It's not looking promising."

"Good." She can hear his smile through the phone. His real smile.

"And maybe then," she continues, "we'll get back to being us?"

"Us?" he rears back.

"You back to you, me back to me," she corrects quickly. "That's what I meant by, um, us," she stammers. "Because, um, married, Christopher, and…"

"Uh, sure, yeah. Yes," he concurs, equally flustered. "I agree. You need to get back to being you, whatever that takes, and I'll keep on doing whatever I have to 'til I'm me again," he blathers. "And uh, maybe…"

"Oh, the work!" she interrupts. "Tell me, is there a time frame for all this jumping and processing? All this blue hat wearing and diner dining?"

"Nope," he answers simply. "Take all the time you need."

This time, it's a comfortable silence that envelops them, as they each cling to their receivers, grinning like fools at the sheer contentment of a phone call. A phone call filled with promise.

* * *

Maybe one day, he _will_ wear that blue hat again. And maybe one day, she _will _return to the diner, having jumped one last time before finally settling in her rightful landing place.

But for today, they've come far enough. They wrap up their call, both feeling, at last, that they truly are on their way back to being themselves.

"So…good talk," she concludes, and he can hear the smile in her voice. Her real smile.

"Yeah, it was. Thanks for the call," he says, his own voice filled with affection. "Goodnight, Lorelai."

"Goodnight, Luke."

* * *

**A/N2 A tremendous thank you (you have no idea) to both deepfriedcake and Eledgy for helping me see this crazy idea through. Yes, due to my neurosis, it took two people to beta this thing, much like it took two people to write the Happy Birthday song (Ok, anyone who gets that reference will instantly become my new cyber bestie). Of course, I kept tinkering long after they told me to post it, already, dammit, so any awkwardness and mistakes are entirely on me. And thanks also to the legendary Mag68 for graciously letting me steal the adorable moniker "Senor Crankypants" from her Good at Dating series (as I was running out of things to call Luke). As soon as I realize I'm borrowing from another fanfic, and not from the show (where they used the less fitting "Senor **_**Swanky**_**pants"), I try to acknowledge it, and check with the author. But it's always a fear that I'm doing it without realizing it, and I want to offer sincere apologies to anyone else I'm inadvertently or subconsciously taking ideas from. Oh, and all those other regular disclaimers, too. I always forget that: I own nothing. Thanks for reading.**


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